


Nighthawks

by mambo



Series: mambo's major works [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Artist!Steve, Diners, M/M, PTSD, Short Depiction Of Violence, Skinny!Steve, Veteran!Bucky, diner au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's working the graveyard shift at the diner when some tiny guy in Doc Martens walks in and orders a strawberry milkshake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighthawks

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Bucky and Steve get into a drunken altercation with an individual that Bucky has had sex with in the past (though the two are not in a committed relationship). If this is something that may upset you, please take note. There's also some PTSD, relating to Bucky's service in the military.
> 
> Title inspired by the painting by Edward Hopper.

"Reserved and shy, your average guy,  
No piercing stare, just out of shape with messy hair,  
But I always figured I was somebody in wait,  
And now I'm guessing that my moment must be late cause I'm here, oh  
  
I'm no teenage icon,  
I'm no Frankie Avalon,  
I'm nobody's hero."

\--From  _Teenage Icon_ by The Vaccines

**...**

It’s three in the morning. This shift is usually quiet, but today is especially so. Bucky’s got one table of twenty-somethings to deal with, the three of them talking quietly and scribbling notes onto a shared a legal pad while they sip coffee, along with one older man sitting at the counter trying to fend off a hangover with a patty melt and a large plate of fries. From the way he’s holding his head in his hands, Bucky is pretty sure that it isn’t working too well. When he gives him his check, he also slips him a few ibuprofen, which the man is grateful. He takes them with the dregs of his coffee, which is pretty gross, but he also leaves Bucky a nice tip, which is pretty great.

So it’s three in the morning, Bucky, Clint and Sam are the only ones on the graveyard shift tonight at the diner and that’s when the guy walks in.

Clint greets him with a smile, shows him to a booth, right by the windows. “Best views of all the drunks in town,” Clint tells the guy. “You can watch them shuffle past as the sun rises. Always fun, especially since you’re out of the vomit range. Haven’t had someone chuck in here since…” he pauses, obviously thoughtful. “2011? Well, that doesn’t count the bathroom. People barf in there all the time.”

The guy gives a half-smile as he slides into the booth, a bit uncomfortable with Clint’s forwardness, and Clint hands him one of the plastic-covered menus. “Thanks,” the guy says.

“Bucky’ll be your server,” Clint says. “But if you need anything else, let me know.”

The guy nods before looking down at the menu. Bucky waits until after he’s collected the tip from the drunk guy to head over and introduce himself. “Hey there, can I get you somethin’ to drink?” he asks.

The guy glances up at Bucky, looking beautiful and confused, then back down to the menu. “I’ll, uh… I…”

Bucky flashes a grin at the guy because _shit_. He’s cute. “You need a minute? Or a recommendation?”

The guy looks back up and cocks an eyebrow up. “Maybe a recommendation would be a little helpful.”

God, this guy’s gorgeous. Blue eyes like the mid-day sky with long lashes hidden under a pair of thick-framed black glasses with blond hair that flops onto his forehead. Sure, he’s a little short and a little skinny, but he knows how to work it in his comfy-looking red cardigan over a white shirt and paint-splattered skinny jeans, a pair of traditional black Doc Martens on his feet. He’s even got a few silver rings up and down the side of his ear. Really pierced. Not fake. He knows himself, and that’s almost as sexy as he is physically.

So, it’s three in the morning and Bucky doesn’t have the willpower _not_ to flirt with this guy. Blame it on animal magnetism or on fate or something as equally stupid. Whatever. He’s gonna flirt and nobody’s gonna stop him (unless, of course, the guy doesn’t want any of it, but Bucky really _really_ hopes God wouldn’t drop a guy who is just his type into his lap and then have him be straight or uninterested). “Hmm, lemme guess what you like.” He bites down on his lip, looking the guy up and down like that’ll give him some sort of clue. There’s ink underneath his fingernails, making them look black and a little weird. For some reason, that’s the detail he zeroes in on, the ink he couldn’t get out from underneath his fingernails. “You look like an artistic type, so normally I’d go with a cappuccino. But there’s the twenty-four hour coffee shop just down the block, so if you were out for the caffeine, you’d’ve headed there.” The corner of the guy’s mouth quirks and Bucky knows he’s headed the right way. “So I’m gonna suggest a shake. Strawberry, since it’s the best one we do.” He can’t help but add in, “Plus, you’ll look real cute sippin’ that. Like somethin’ out of the fifties; just needs a poodle skirt.”

He’s rewarded by the guy’s cockiness easing up into a small blush. “S-strawberry shake,” he says before clearing his throat. His voice is deeper than Bucky expects and it’s pretty much the greatest thing he’s ever heard. “Strawberry shake sounds good.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Bucky turns around and heads behind the counter, to the window between him and Sam, who is manning the grill. “Strawberry shake, Sam.”

“Sure thing,” Sam responds. Bucky grabs a coffee pot and heads over to the other table to give each of the three patrons a very gratefully received refill. By the time he finishes that, Sam’s got the guy’s milkshake ready to go. Bucky pulls a can of whipped cream out from the small fridge they have under the counter and tops the shake with a generous portion of whipped cream. Maybe a bit more than he’s supposed to give. The guy looks small, is all. Don’t want his blood sugar getting low, especially so late at night.

He grabs a straw from another box beneath the counter and brings the shake over. “One strawberry shake,” he says. The guy looks up from the menu—which he’s been studying furiously this whole time—startled by Bucky’s sudden appearance. “You know what you wanna eat?”

He bites down on his lip, glances back at the menu, then up to Bucky once again. “I’m, uh.” He pauses. “I’m waiting for a friend, actually. Would it be possible to wait until he gets here?”

Something in Bucky’s chest deflates. “Your friend?” The guy shrugs, grabs the straw and unwraps it, pulling the wrapping apart into little pieces. “Well, since it’s such a busy night, I really shouldn’t let you—“ Bucky gestures to the empty restaurant around them; the guy gives him a suspicious look. “—but since you’re cute, I’ll make an exception. Just this once.”

The guy’s cheeks go red. “You do this with all your customers?” He’s staring really resolutely down at the wrapper, pulling it into a million little bits that Bucky’ll have to clean up. Bucky doesn’t really mind, or at least not this time.

“Nah,” Bucky says. “Like I said: you’re special.”

Bucky turns around, thinking that whatever expression the guy is making would probably be too much for him. Bucky’s a flirt, sure, but usually not this overt, especially at work. He’s got to get a look at whoever this guy’s waiting for (at three am at this shitty little diner? They better be worth it). That’ll be enough to get Bucky to calm down, stop acting like a dog in heat. He’s making a fool of himself. Bucky’s self-aware; he realizes that.

So Bucky heads back behind the counter, fiddles with the radio until there’s quiet big band jazz playing. Weirdly enough, this is one of the few times during the day when he can get this sort of music on the radio. Seems like there’s only a market for it after midnight. From the corner of his eye, Bucky notices the guy glance over to him, but he ignores it. If he doesn’t like the music, he can take his menace of a cute face to the coffee place down the street. Not even a nice guy in Doc Martens is gonna keep him from turning on his station.

“You got your nerd music back on?” Sam calls from the kitchen. Bucky moves over to the window that separates the counter from the back. Sam’s standing in the window, grinning ear-to-ear. “You only do that when you’re having a good shift.” His eyes glance over to the guy in the booth, then back to Bucky with a knowing look. “What’s got you all excited?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Just in the mood for some Goodman, Sam. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

“There’s a lot wrong with that, Bucky. Wouldn’t want to give off a nerdy vibe to anyone who may be hanging out here. In case, you know, you were— Ouch!”

Bucky flicks Sam’s face through the window. “Shut up, you.”

“Clint!” Sam calls. Clint looks up from his coffee and crossword and raises an eyebrow. “Bucky is _abusing_ me. On the job. I demand you fire him this very minute.”

“Are you serious?” Clint asks.

“Hell no,” Sam responds. “But reprimand him gently, or something. Let him know that flicking other employees _on the face_ will not fly in this fine establishment.”

“Barnes,” Clint says, firm. “You will not flick Sam in the face. In this establishment, at least.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Whatever it is you two do in your free time is _not_ my problem.”

Sam and Bucky start laughing while Clint looks somewhat bewildered, adjusting one of his hearing aids to make sure that he’s not missing something. 

And then something wonderful happens. Bucky turns a bit, just to maybe get the quickest little glance at the guy. He’s obviously trying to hide behind his menu, but he’s… He’s laughing, too. And it looks real good on him.

**…**

But ten minutes of waiting for whoever turns to twenty. And twenty becomes thirty. Then the guy’s milkshake is almost gone and Bucky can’t take it anymore.

He barges into the kitchen and makes a batch of fries, chatting with Sam, saying he’s just making a late night snack. “Um-hum,” Sam responds. “Sure it is.”

“I’d flick you, but I don’t want the boss’s wrath again. Once a night is more than enough for me.”

“You must be a real hit with the—“

“Don’t finish that sentence. I’ll get Barton to tell you to stop sexually harassing me.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I was gonna say bridge club. It matches your crappy taste in music.”

Bucky takes the piping hot fries out of the frier, lets some of the oil drip off of them, then dumps them onto a plate. “I may have the music taste of a ninety year-old, but I don’t got the hobbies.”

“Yeah, your virility’s showing right now, I think.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Bucky flicks the side of Sam’s head with his free hand on the way to the dining room.

The group of twenty-somethings left a few minutes ago—with a shitty tip, despite the numerous coffee refills—so the only customer left in the place is the guy, looking more and more tired and upset, checking his phone every twenty seconds as he sucks down the last dregs of his milkshake. Setting the plate on the counter, Bucky fills up two glasses with Coke then picks them all back up. So Bucky takes a deep breath, heads towards the table and calls over to Clint, “Takin’ my break, boss.”

“You’re really leaving me helpless here,” Clint deadpans.

“You’ll get over the betrayal someday,” Bucky responds, getting to the table and sliding the plate onto it.

“I, uh,” the guy stutters. “I didn’t order. I mean. If it’s an issue I can—“

“Hey bud, relax.” He puts the two glasses down, one in front of the guy and the other on the other side of the booth. “Listen, it’s my break. I’m real tired and kinda bored, and you look like you may be the same. So do a guy a favor and share some fries? I promise they’re not flirty fries or pity fries. Just fries. _Good_ fries,” he emphasizes because the guy is giving him this blank, confused look. When he doesn’t give an answer, Bucky starts to backtrack. “ _Or_ I could get outta your way. Which I can definitely—“

“Wait, no, I mean, yes, or.” That blush crawls over the guy’s cheeks once again. “I want to eat the fries with, um, you.” He straightens his posture a bit. “Wouldn’t want you have to lonely fries all by yourself.”

“That’s the spirit.” Bucky slips into the other side of the booth and grabs the ketchup bottle. He aims it for the edge of the plate and squeezes out an oozing pile.

“I’m Steve, by the way.” The guy says before taking a small sip of Coke.

“I forgot straws,” Bucky says, pushing himself off the booth. That is until Steve’s bony foot is pressing his thigh back into the booth. “What the—“

“You’re on break,” Steve says, removing the foot and dipping a fry into the ketchup. “I think it’s against some kind of labor law for you to get up. All those muckrakers would be rolling in their graves if you were to leave this booth. So no straws. You stay here.” Bucky just looks at the guy confused; the guy’s poker face breaks into a smile. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Bucky,” Bucky responds, automatic.

The smile gets a little wider. “Bucky? Really? And you’re sure you’re not flirting with me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and the guy chomps down on the fry. His eyes get a little wide, like most peoples’ do when they first try the diner’s fries but Bucky ignores it. The man has made a dig at Bucky’s name; he must defend himself from such injustice, even if the man in question has this nearly orgasmic post-fries look on his face. “You gotta work with what you got, and my full name is James Buchanan. So I either go with God’s most boring name, or the dorky middle one. I like to think Bucky’s a good compromise. It’s a lot more fun than Steve, at least.” Bucky makes a face, wrinkles up his nose with false disgust. “Who names their kid Steve nowadays? I got six great uncles and I’m pretty sure five of ‘em are named Steve.”

“I think you’re making a bit of an exaggeration there, _Bucky_.”

Bucky nearly drops his fry into the ketchup because the way his name sounds coming out of Steve’s lips does very specific, naughty things to places that should go unnoticed during work. Bucky swallows, barely able to maintain his composure. “You caught me.” Bucky is focusing very resolutely on making sure there is just the right amount of ketchup on his fry. “Didn’t end up havin’ the night shift in this shit hole by bein’ the smartest kid on the block.”

“I heard that,” Barton calls from his booth. Bucky ignores him.

“Have you been working here for long?” Steve asks.

“Uh, yeah. About two and a half years? I’m tryin’ to pay my way through school.” He pauses. “CUNY,” he adds, explanatory.

“Good school,” Steve says. There’s something a little guarded about his expression.

“How about you? What do you do?”

The expression seems to soften. “I’m an artist,” he explains. He glances over at the counter and that’s when Bucky sees the hearing aid on one ear, hanging next to piercings identical to the ones he has on the other ear. So he’s like Clint; though, Bucky’s guessing Steve didn’t get his through a tour of Iraq. “I actually just moved to the area. Used to live here as a kid, then I moved to Chicago. But I’m back now.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. “What do you do… like, art-wise?” Steve makes a face like he’s amused, so Bucky adds on, affecting his voice to make it prissy and pretentious as hell. “How do you art, Steve?”

Bucky is rewarded with a chuckle and has to hide his own smile behind his glass of Coke as he takes a sip. “Painting, mostly,” Steve says. “Sometimes I collage or draw, but I’m known for painting.”

“You done anything I’d recognize?”

Steve shrugs. “Doubt it,” he says. “Unless you’re studying art?” He almost sounds hopeful.

Which is why it sort of sucks for Bucky to admit, “Nope. Engineering.” He pauses. “But, uh, I’ve been to some galleries. Around here at least. You know the Red Room?” Steve nods. “The owner’s a regular here. Natasha Romanov?”

“Yeah, I show some stuff there. I like Natasha.”

Bucky bites down on his bottom lip, tries to think. “You Steve Rogers? The guy who does the portraits?”

Steve nods, trying to look nonchalant but failing deeply. Mentioning his art makes him light up, every part of him alert and happy.

Bucky grins; he doesn’t mind making Steve look that way. Not at all. “There was that one you did that just sold, the one with the navy background? What’d you use for the pattern on it?”

“Um, you know those brushes that you use to roll paint onto walls?” Bucky nods. “There’re rubber ones, like rubber stamps? People use them with paint for wallpaper, to get those patterns. So after I painted the figure, I used one of those with glue. Painted the glitter on over that. Then I painted the background on around the pattern.”

“Holy shit. That must’ve been a pain.”

Steve squirms. “I uh, wasn’t the first one to use the rollers in art. Christopher Wool’s done it for years.”

“I don’t know who that is, so I’d rather just think you’re brilliant. I ain’t gonna share a plate of fries with Christopher Wood—”

“Wool,” Steve corrects.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Woolly mammoth, whatever, but I’m sharin’ them with you, so you’re the most talented artist in Brooklyn for all I’m concerned.” He pauses. “Besides, I don’t know much about art, but I really do like your paintings, when you show ‘em there.”

Steve struggles with a comeback for a moment. He sighs, almost as if he’s giving up, then says, “You know, it’s Natasha who told me I should try this place out.”

Bucky can’t help but lean a bit closer. “She mention anythin’ about the amazin’ service?”

“Nah,” Steve replies, smirking. “In fact, she may have mentioned something about the waitstaff being a little presumptuous.”

“Well then,” Bucky says, leaning back against the vinyl of the booth. “Maybe I should take my pity fries over to the coffee shop where they’ll be appreciated.”

“Thought you said they weren’t pity fries.”

Bucky shrugs. “Well, they had to be either pity fries or flirty fries and I don’t think my flirtin’s gettin’ me anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Steve mumbles, dragging a fry lazily through the pile of ketchup, but before Bucky has a chance to be excited the door opens with a chime.

The guy who walks in is definitely not one of the diner’s usual clientele. He’s wearing a stylish and tailored three-piece suit and a pair of leather loafers that looks like they cost about the same price as Bucky’s college education. It takes Bucky a moment, but he can place the face. “That’s Tony Stark,” he says under his breath, a little awed and a lot nervous.

And then Stark looks around, gets his eyes on Steve and smirks. “Rogers,” he says. “Could’ve picked some place a little less likely to give us salmonella but…” He trails off, looking at Bucky from behind his sunglasses. Bucky’s heard of Tony Stark, of his famous playboy persona and infamous moodiness. Who wears sunglasses when it’s almost 4 in the morning? Assholes, that’s who. “Who’s this?” he asks, turning back to Steve.

“This is, uh—“

“Your waiter,” Bucky says, standing up. He’s taller than Stark, even if it’s only by an inch. So he has that going for him, even if Stark is the CEO of one of the most valuable technology companies on the planet and Bucky is a waiter.

Stark looks him up and down, unimpressed. His eyes linger on Bucky’s metal arm. A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitches. “That one of ours?” Bucky nods, movement a little stilted. “You’re welcome,” Stark says, eyebrows shooting up as he smirks.

“Bucky,” Clint calls. “You’re still on break. Eight minutes. Make sure you use the bathroom. Afterwards go stock the freezer. I’ll take care of the front.”

“That your boss?” Stark asks. Bucky nods again, this time slower and more deliberate. “Better hop to. Wouldn’t want to lose your chance at…” He looks around the restaurant, again, unimpressed. “All this.”

“Tony,” Steve says in a stern voice, but Bucky’s turning around and walks into the back of the restaurant where he slides down a wall, pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them close.

**…**

Clint gets it, as best as anyone can. Coming back to the real world at twenty, having only been in Afghanistan for a few short months before an IED blew up his Jeep and his arm along with it. The StarkTech arm is great; if it weren’t so cold and so obviously metal, it could pass for a real hand in the way that it moves and functions. And there are times—the good times—where Bucky forgets he has it. There are times where he feels whole and solid, like there are all these irretrievable pieces of him that he left in the desert a world away. Up until Stark walking in, this night had been one of those times.

**…**

“You alright?” Clint asks towards the end of Bucky’s shift. He really _is_ restocking the freezer, organizing the food in there and doing some minor defrosting.

Bucky shrugs before he shivers. “Funny thing is, I really should be thankin’ that guy. I’d still be in the hospital if it weren’t for the arm. Now I’m close to graduatin’, got my life pretty together.” He and Clint have never gotten too personal, apart from the basic understanding that comes from one veteran talking to another. “But that guy standin’ there, tellin’ me my life ain’t worth his spit…” Bucky shakes his head, slow. “It’s not okay.”

Bucky doesn’t kick the box of burger patties by his feet but he sure as hell wants to. 

“You still going to the VA?” Clint asks. Bucky nods. Once a week he goes and talks to a psychologist one-on-one; sometimes he goes to group too, but he hasn’t had as much time lately, with school and the job. Clint exhales. “They’re gone now. You can head home, if you want. Sam and I can cover until the morning staff gets here.”

If it had been any other sort of situation, Bucky would’ve stayed on, not let some rich asshole ruin his shift. But he’s tired, it’s five in the morning and he’s still a college student on spring break.

So Bucky nods, finishes up what he’s doing and heads on home.

**…**

But while it may be spring break for most college students, Bucky is still a twenty-five year-old veteran with bills to pay, and he needs to _work_.

So he gets to the diner at 4 pm the next day, says hi to Darcy, who is waiting tables, and Thor, who is manning the grill. He also nods hello to Jane, Thor’s scientist girlfriend who sits at the counter when he’s on shift with a carafe of coffee as she works. Clint’s roommate Kate is sitting at the counter next to Jane, tapping on her cellphone and resolutely _not_ waiting tables like she should be.

“Thank god,” she says upon seeing Bucky. “You’re so late.”

“Kate, I’m six minutes early.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you just saved me from having to fill that guy’s coffee for, like, the nineteenth time.” She gestures with her thumb over to the farthest booth. Bucky strains his neck but can’t see whoever is sitting in it. “You bring him the coffee. I’m _done_.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but grabs the coffee pot anyway. “You’re lucky I like you, kid.”

“Marry me, Barnes,” she deadpans.

“My shift ends at midnight Bishop. I’ll expect a ring if we’re gonna elope, something real nice, very shiny,” he calls as he reaches the booth.

And then he stops dead.

“Hey,” Steve says, looking impossibly small in a huge green army-surplus jacket. He’s got a notebook out, a pencil clutched in his hand. Bucky can see a few doodles on the page that’s open, faces mostly. He thinks he sees Kate’s there, sketched out haphazardly on the far corner, scowl on her face. “I wasn’t sure that you had a shift today, so.”

“Coffee,” Bucky says, lifting the pot uselessly, then pouring it into Steve’s mug.

“Uh, thanks. Look, I was hoping we could—“

“Did Kate take your order?” Steve shakes his head, slow and confused. “Then what’ll it be?”

“Um, I didn’t really want—“

“Then the check?” Bucky’s staring at the sketchbook, still.

But he looks at Steve and it’s a mistake. He’s looking at Bucky with impossibly wide blue eyes, sad and betrayed. “Please,” he says quietly. “I really liked talking to you last night.” He pauses to push his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “And I wanted to apologize.”

The corner of Bucky’s lip twitches. “Nothin’ to apologize for.” He swallows, wonders if maybe he could convince Kate to take this table back. Technically, Bucky’s shift hasn’t even started. This is what he gets for being nice and disobeying labor laws. He’d make a joke about muckrakers, but it feels a little inappropriate now.

“Tony is… he’s not a bad guy. A little brash, but he’s been through a lot.” For the first time since they met, Steve’s eyes linger on Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky wants to move it out of view, hide it or something. He doesn’t want Steve looking at him like that, like he’s _pitying_ him. “It was late. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and he’d had a long day. He was—“

“Listen bud, it’s fine. I said it was fine.” Bucky’s struggling to keep his voice under control. “You don’t have to make excuses. Doesn’t matter much to me what kinda mood your boyfriend was in last night. Didn’t mean a thing. Water under the bridge and all. Now do you anythin’ want besides your coffee?” Because Bucky is a waiter and he’d hate to mess up all that he’s got going for him in this shit hole.

“Yeah,” Steve says, eyes serious and gaze steady. “To get you a cup.”

“Huh?” Bucky replies dumbly.

Steve glances away for a moment, cheeks flushing. “Don’t make me spell it out,” he says in a small voice. “You’re a lot better at this than I am.”

“Better at what?” Bucky asks, so confused and frankly, too tired for all this.

“Thought you’d be smarter,” Steve mutters before looking back up. “I want to take you out on a date. To get coffee or… Or whatever.” Steve pushes his glasses up again and Bucky just stares because…

“You’re not goin’ out with Tony Stark?” Steve shakes his head, but won’t meet Bucky’s eyes. “Didn’t look like that.”

“We used to, but that’s not really important.” He pauses. “Are you going to answer?”

Steve is cute. Bucky liked talking to him. But Bucky’s dealt with high-maintenance guys before, ones with baggage from previous relationships. And Bucky has too much self-preservation to get himself involved with a time bomb, especially when he’d end up hurt and alone because of _Tony Fuckin’ Shit Hole Stark_.

“I’ll get Kate to bring you the check,” he says quietly, gripping the coffee pot tight and turning away.

**…**

“Wanna go out?” he asks Sam as they’re finishing up their afternoon shift the next day.

Sam shakes his head. “Maria and I have plans. It’s the big three month anniversary.”

“Doin’ somethin’ special?”

Sam lights up. “Oh yeah, man. I got all sorts of—“

“Never mind. I’m totally not interested in hearing about whatever weird sex life you’ve got goin’ on.” Sam rolls his eyes and sighs, all dramatic. “Well, if you end up cancellin’, I’m goin’ out tonight. Wouldn’t mind draggin’ you along.”

“Not gonna cancel, Bucky, but I appreciate the offer.”

Bucky pauses. “You can tell me ‘bout those plans now.”

Sam’s face lights up and Bucky is happy for him, he really is.

It’s moments like these that Bucky wishes he had… Well, some friends. Yeah, there’s Sam and some of the other people he works with, but he doesn’t have anyone to really call up to go out clubbing with him and it’s not like he’s going to ask any of the little brats he goes to school with. Far too often Bucky sits at home alone, or goes out by himself. Sure, he can pick somebody up when he’s out, but he never really ends up with anything more than a hook-up. He’s sick of it. He’s really, _really_ sick of it.

And that’s why Bucky calls up Brock Rumlow, asks, “You busy tonight?” and says he’ll meet him at the usual place at 10 pm.

**…**

Bucky dresses for a night out in a tight black v-neck, leather jacket and a pair of pants that _almost_ borders on too small. He’s still in pretty good shape from the army, even if he’s had to work hard at it after the injury.

Brock seems to appreciate the effort, at least.

Not that he’d ever say something like that.

He and Bucky have hooked-up a few times, usually drunkenly and when neither has a better option. It’s actually the first time that Bucky actually invites Brock out. Usually they meet-up coincidentally; they tend to hang out at the same spots. And there was that one time where Bucky texted him as a booty call, but he doesn’t entirely remember that, so Bucky doesn’t think that quite counts. Sure, Brock isn’t his usual type, but he’s decent in bed and doesn’t seem to mind that Bucky is 1/4th robot, which is always a plus. He also doesn’t appreciate the fact that Bucky is 1/4th robot too much, which can get a bit creepy.

So Bucky grabs his keys, wallet and phone and heads out. It’s not too far a walk to Bucky’s favorite gay bar and Bucky mistimes it, arriving tenish minutes before Brock is supposed to meet him. Definitely not cool, but Bucky couldn’t spend more time just hanging around his small, dank apartment. And this place is dark and full of flashing lights, plus the liquor is pretty cheap and Bucky can almost always find someone who maybe wants to forget about their life as much as Bucky wants to forget about his every once in a while. So he heads up to the bar, orders himself a rum and Coke and waits.

He’s checking out a smaller guy with messy coppery colored hair on the other side of the room when there’s a tap on his shoulder. Bucky turns around, expecting Brock, but nearly backs into the bar when he sees Steve Rogers.

He’s still tiny, but his clothes are tight. He’s wearing red jeans and his Doc Martens with a black tank top. He’s got the military-style jacket he wore to the diner tied around his waist, kind of ruining any sort of sexy effect the rest of the outfit would have had. It also looks like someone dumped a bunch of glitter haphazardly into his blond hair. Some of it spills over onto the side of his face and stuck in the creases of his eyelids.

He looks good.

“I thought that was you,” he says, smiling up at Bucky. He looks like he’s had a drink or two already, movement lose and languid. He looks more comfortable in himself than Bucky has seen him to be thus far. “I didn’t know you came here!”

“I do,” Bucky says, something tightening in his chest. The bartender sets down his drink and Bucky pulls his wallet from his pocket. But before he can get out the right amount of cash, Steve pushes him to the side and slaps a ten dollar bill onto the counter.“You wouldn’t let me buy you coffee,” Steve says conspiratorially, smirking like he’s done something sneaky. “So I just bought you this drink.”

“Lemme pay you—“

Steve shakes his head with vehemence, some of the glitter shaking out of his hair and onto his small, pale shoulders. Bucky wants to reach out and shake it off. He doesn’t. “No,” Steve says when he’s done shaking. He stumbles a bit and Bucky does reach out then, putting a steadying hand on his upper arm. “What’re you doing?” Steve asks.

Bucky drops the arm. “Makin’ sure you don’t fall down, ya punk.”

Steve looks at him confused, like he can’t decide whether Bucky was trying to make fun of him or if ‘punk’ is some kind of an endearment. He must decide on the latter because he takes a step closer to Bucky, puts a clumsy hand on Bucky’s side, slipping it underneath his jacket. “You look really nice,” Steve says as his thumb strokes little circles onto the fabric of Bucky’s shirt.

He should move. Bucky should thank Steve for the drink and walk away. He invited a date out tonight, for Pete’s sake and he hasn’t even had a drink yet, so there’s no way to blame bad decisions on the liquor.

But he doesn’t move. He steps in a little closer to Steve and takes a sip of his drink. There’s definitely more rum than Coke in the glass; it burns going down his throat. “Yeah?” he asks.

Steve’s blue eyes are sparkling in the flashing lights. He nods. “I wanna dance with you,” he says. “If you would let me.”

Bucky bites down on his bottom lip, hesitating for a moment. “You here with a date?” he asks, throat a little tight.

Steve shrugs. “My ex,” he says. “Tony. You met him.” He doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes.

It feels like Bucky’s stomach is falling into his shoes. “You should probably—“

“We’re not together, though. I promise. He’s dancing with somebody else.” Steve presses himself closer. “And I wanna dance with _you_.”

“Do you, now?”

Almost the entirety of Steve’s small body is pressed up against Bucky now; Bucky can feel the movement of his chest in and out, in and out with every breath he takes. Steve looks up and nods. “Yeah, I really do.”

“Well then.” Bucky tips back his head and drains his drink, relishing the burn as it goes down his throat. He sets the glass back on the bar and turns back to Steve. “Let’s do it, then.”

Steve lights up, more glitter falling from his hair. He grabs Bucky’s arm and drags him onto the dance floor. It’s not sexy at all, seems more like a little kid dragging their parent to the park. It just makes Bucky laugh, glad that this little guy found him. But when they get into the dance floor something in Steve changes.

He gets quiet, shy; he’s tense and confused-looking, languid movement and confidence gone.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks over the music, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve stares down at the hand, then back up at Bucky. “I can’t dance,” he yells back.

And Bucky grins, looking down at Steve being drunk and self-conscious. “It ain’t too hard.”

“Teach me?”

God, this loser, with his big sparkling eyes.

So Bucky takes a step into Steve’s space, grips one of Steve’s hips with his flesh hand and pulls him in close. Steve is blushing, even under his flushed cheeks and staring at Bucky. “You gotta…” Bucky trails off, rolls his body against Steve’s. Steve shudders, grabs Bucky’s hips and replicates the movement. It’s not as smooth nor as practiced as Bucky’s, but his eyes are narrow with concentration, like he’s really _trying_. And Bucky feels that look right in his pants.

They start dancing more seriously, Steve and Bucky grinding against one another, the music playing loud and lights flashing. Glitter floats off of Steve’s hair, making a glittery haze around them. It’s perfect. Bucky digs his fingers Steve’s thin body, gets him as close as possible and—

“Wait.”

Bucky steps off, lets go of Steve. “You okay?” he asks, worried.

Steve nods. Looking almost reverent, he grabs for Bucky’s metal arm. Though Bucky’s first instinct is to flinch away, he lets Steve hold it, guide it up to his face. “Want you to hold me with both arms,” he says before pressing his lips to the palm of the metal hand.

Bucky’s heart nearly stops.

And of course, that’s when Brock shows up, pushing his way through an amorous couple nearly them and dragging Bucky away from Steve by collar of his shirt. “What the hell, Barnes?” he grunts, not letting go even as Bucky tries to swat his hand away.

“C’mon Brock, it was nothin’. Lighten up, would ya.” But Brock’s grip just gets tighter on his shirt. “Jesus, you’re gonna choke me.”

A few couples around them have stopped to stare at what’s happening. Steve is staring at Bucky with wide eyes, gaze flickering from Bucky’s face down to where Brock’s grip is on his shirt, then back up again. “Who’s this shit?” Brock asks, eyeing Steve.

“Friend from work,” Bucky chokes out and wow, he’s having a bit of trouble breathing. Not ideal. He can feel the edges of panic slipping into his mind as the breath leaves his lungs.

As if he can read Bucky’s mind, Steve steps forward. “Let him go,” he demands, voice serious and low.

Brock snorts. “You gonna make me?” he retorts.

Bucky tries to pry Brock’s fingers off of him, but his grip is iron tight. “Yeah,” Steve responds. “I will. So you better let him go.”

“You?” Brock snorts. “You little shrimp? I’d like to see you—“

And then Steve _rams_ Brock, knocking him off balance. He releases his grip on Bucky’s shirt and Bucky stumbles a bit into another club goer. He notices vaguely the small crowd gathering around the three of them, which isn’t a good sign. He’s definitely gotta end this, one way or another, before they all end up getting arrested.

But Steve is not letting up, barely dodging Brock’s attempted punches in a whirling mass of glitter. If Bucky were drunker—or high, but he hasn’t been high since he was a teen—he’d be kind of stuck on the weird beauty of it all. Thankfully, Bucky is still mostly sober, if a bit horny and confused, so once he gets his footing again, Bucky barges right back up to Rumlow and socks him square in the jaw with his metal hand.

Rumlow staggers back, rubbing at his jaw while Bucky looks on with wide eyes.

If he were some kind of superhero he’d have something pithy to say here, but this is real life. There’s no BANG or POW sound effect, just the trance-like beat of the music as Bucky looks at the damage he’s caused with wide eyes. He hasn’t done more than flick Sam with his metal arm and he’s sort of amazed at how the side of Brock’s jaw is already becoming discolored, how the outlines of his knuckles are already visible on his face.

It’s disgusting.

“What the _fuck_?” Brock spits, then tries throwing a punch at Bucky, who dodges it with ease. It’s been years since he’s been in a fight like this, but Bucky is _trained_ and the movements and strategy easily come back to him. _It’s like riding a bicycle_ , he thinks to himself as he lets Brock get close, just to trip him up with a well-placed kick to the knees. They go on for another minute or so, Brock stubbornly antagonizing while Bucky dodges and throws in a few hits, none of which are nearly as rough as his first one. The ease with which Bucky is fighting feels so natural that panic begins to bubble up in him again. He needs this to end. He needs this to end _now_.

He knows pressure points; how to make someone pass out.

He knows how to kill someone, too. Kill them with a blink of an eye.

The thought makes him falter in his footing, allowing Brock to get a heavy punch at Bucky’s face, connecting with his eye. Bucky staggers back into someone’s arms.

“Think you boys should call it a night,” says a tall, dark-skinned man with an eyepatch as he appears behind Brock. He grabs Brock’s wrists and pulls them behind his back; from the way Brock is wincing, it must be a tight grip. But whoever it is who has a hold on him is just keeping a gentle grip on his upper-arms. Bucky looks up to his own captor and sees…

“Thor?”

“That is correct, Bucky Barnes. And though I am your friend, your abominable behavior in this club must be reprimanded, so it is with a heavy heart that I must eject you and your small, glittery friend.”

Brock is practically foaming at the mouth, so the other guard tells Bucky and Steve to get a head start, which they take quickly and quietly, hustling out of the club and onto the nearly-deserted sidewalks outside of it. Sometimes Bucky forgets that most people his age work in real jobs, nine to five, five days a week. He’s the freak here, starting in the real world too late and too broken.

Bucky doesn’t realize how close together he and Steve have been walking until Bucky glides away, a little lost in his own thought. “Well, I should probably—“

“Listen,” Steve says, sounding a hell of a lot more sober now than he did just a few minutes ago. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and that guy, and it’s probably not my place to pry, but if he’s your boyfriend and he’s treating you like that, you need to end whatever it is you have going on with him.”

Bucky snorts. “Listen bud, he was just my date for tonight. I never had anything serious with him and never plan to. Had no idea that he was a sociopath ’til he grabbed my shirt. No way I’m goin’ out with him again now.”

“So he’s…” Steve very pointedly looks away. “Not your boyfriend?” His false nonchalance fails him. Bucky can see his tenseness.

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes. “No,” he says, plainly. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and lets his mind go blank for a moment. He’s still not over the vague sensations of panic that the fight caused. He just needs to breathe in, breathe out. Like his counselor at the VA told him: breathe in, breathe out.

“Bucky?” Steve asks. Bucky realizes they’ve walked two blocks since he zonked out.

“Sorry,” he says, voice almost as small as he feels.

He hazards a glance at Steve, who is looking up at him concerned. “Are you okay? Is it your eye? Or…” He trails off, eyes flickering down to Bucky’s arm. Bucky looks away again. In and out. “You know Natasha? From the Red Room?” Bucky nods, confused. Natasha is a regular at the diner. Of course he knows her. Hadn’t they talked about this? “She sometimes gets a little too inside of her own head when things happen. Makes her… remember stuff.” He pauses. “It’s not a bad thing, just something that happens. So, that fight. Are you alright?”

Bucky contemplates lying, but he’s tired and Steve’s face in the dim light of the street lamps is still glittering and Bucky has never had the best skills when it comes to self-preservation. “Probably not gonna get too much sleep tonight,” Bucky admits, pulling a hand out of his pocket to fuss with his hair, give him something to do other than think about his repressed sexuality and the horrors of war.

“Then…” He trails off, taking a moment to brace himself. He stands up a little taller, voice becomes a little stronger. “Come get a cup of coffee with me. No strings attached. But it’s my fault that you had to fight that guy, so let me keep you company for a bit. Let me do that for you, at least.”

Let Bucky reiterate: he’s never been great at self-preservation. “Sure,” he responds. “Okay.”

**…**

They end up at the diner because—while he spends way too much time there already—there’s only one twenty-four hour joint in town that Bucky actually likes. And that includes the coffee place. It’s only 11:00, so the place still has some customers. Most of them are lively twenty-somethings, drunk already and getting some grub between their bar-hopping. But there’re a few teenagers there as well, trying to escape their parents or flirt with someone while their friends watch on, giggling and jealous. There’s also an old man in the corner, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. There’s always one.

“Just can’t stay away,” Clint deadpans when they walk in, but is stopped short after getting a better look at Bucky’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Bad date,” Bucky explains, pointing a booth out to Steve, who goes over and sits down. “Real asshole. But he looks worse than I do.”

“I’ll get you a bag of frozen peas for that,” Clint says, moving towards the freezer. “If anyone comes in, you gotta seat them, okay?”

“Am I gettin’ paid?”

“No way,” Clint calls.

“Then they can wait,” Bucky replies. Clint half-heartedly flips him off before disappearing into the back.

Bucky grabs two menus from the host stand makes his way over to the table that Steve is already sitting at. Steve’s on his phone, furiously shooting off what looks like several text messages. “Got somewhere you gotta be?” Bucky asks, half-testing.

“Just telling my friends that I’m alright,” Steve replies, thumbs flying before he sets the phone down on the table. Bucky slides into the seat across from Steve’s and slides Steve a menu. Steve looks up. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Bucky responds, suddenly feeling a bit nervous in the bright light of the diner. “Wouldn’t want you to get up and get glitter all over the place. I’d end up having to clean it up.”

Steve scowls. “It’s not that much.”

“When you were fightin’ with Brock you looked like some kinda warrior My Little Pony, trailin’ rainbow glitter all over the place.” Steve’s frown deepens and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t badass, just a… glittery badass.”

Before Steve has a chance to respond, Darcy comes to the table. “Oh,” she says. “It’s you losers.” She pauses. “Why is he so glittery?” she asks Bucky.

“Darcy,” Clint calls, “It’s okay. I’ll take care of them.” And though Darcy may be a goof, she’s a good employee, so she just says bye and heads back to wipe off the counter. Clint gets back to their table and hands a bag of frozen peas over to Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, grabbing the bag and putting it on his stinging eye. “You don’t happen to have some Advil in the freezer, do ya?”

“Not in the freezer, but I could bring some out with your food.” He pauses. “Assuming you are here for food.”

He gives Bucky a searching look, one that tells him that no matter how many long hours Bucky puts in at this diner, he’s not going to be able to use this booth unless he both orders food _and_ pays for it. “Ah… yeah,” Bucky says before glancing over at Steve with his good eye. “You ready?” Steve gets the menu a momentary perfunctory look before giving a curt nod. “‘Kay, I’ll, uh… Have a cup of coffee and a burger.”

“Cheese?”

“That even a question?”

Clint scrawls that down on a small notepad, then turns to Steve. “You?”

“Coffee and a grilled cheese.”

“What kind?”

“Of cheese?” Clint gives Steve a searching look, then _Bucky_ a searching look, then looks back at Steve, who mutters “Swiss,” blushing and embarrassed.

Clint nods again, heads to the back to give Bruce their order at the grill.

Bucky turns back to Steve, keeping the bag of peas on his black eye. “Well, gotta hope this clears up before graduation.”

Steve turns a bit green and Bucky is suddenly worried that he’s going to chuck. Bucky has no idea how much the twerp drank before he asked Bucky to dance. From the way he was acting, it could’ve been a bit more than he should’ve given his tiny stature. Besides, Bucky’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t have dirty danced with Bucky like that if he were anything close to sober. But when something like that thing with Brock happens, it has a nasty of way of pulling you back to sobriety, whether you want it to or not. Bucky didn’t have much to drink, but Steve doesn’t even seem mildly drunk anymore, even if there’s still stuff going through his bloodstream.

And honestly, all of this would probably be a little better if Bucky _were_ a bit drunker.

“Sorry,” Steve says, quiet.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“If I hadn’t—“

“C’mon,” Bucky interrupts. “That’s bullshit.” Steve gives him a confused look. Bucky glances around them, making sure that Clint isn’t in hearing range, then leans in. He says, quick and quiet, “I said yes and I liked dancin’ with you, alright? Not your fault I had the biggest dick in the bar as my date. So don’t beat yourself up anymore than you’re, y’know, beat up.”

Bucky leans back just in time for Clint to saunter over with two mugs and a pot of coffee. “How’s that eye?” he asks, half-mocking and half-concerned as he pours coffee into each of their mugs. 

“Fine, I guess.” Bucky shrugs. “I’ve had worse,” he says, pointedly taking the mug up with his left hand, metal flashing in the fluorescent lights of the diner.

“Attaboy,” Clint responds, pushing the other mug towards Steve, who holds it gingerly between his hands, like he’s trying to warm them up. Bucky has to restrain himself from making some kind of crack about warming them up for him.

And then he remembers the way Steve kissed his metal palm. A shiver runs down Bucky’s spine.

But Clint’s voice knocks him out of his momentary attention lapse. “Food’ll be up in a couple minutes.”

Steve waits until Clint’s away, then says, “He seems like a good boss.”

Bucky shrugs. “Better than most, I guess.”

There’s a pause.

Bucky puts down the bag of peas to take a sip of his coffee before he winces. The diner’s coffee sucks. That’s probably why the 24-hour coffee place down the street is still doing well, even if the diner has better everything else under the sun. Bucky had a pastry at the coffee shop once and it nearly chipped his tooth.

And then he glances up at Steve and Steve’s got this funny little look on his face and—

“What? Do I got somethin’ on my face?” Bucky asks, pointedly pointing to every part of his face besides his gross black eye.

Steve snorts. “Just a lotta ugly.”

Bucky smirks. “You didn’t think that way when you were tryin’ to feel me up on the dance floor.” Steve’s jaw drops, so Bucky continues, “You think I’m hotter than this mediocre coffee. Don’t try to deny it. I _know_.” He grins rakishly as Steve’s eyes get wide.

Steve is still trying to stutter out an answer when Clint comes back with their food. And God, doesn’t even have the excuse of the drunken munchies, but that burger is looking _perfect_. Clint even remembered that Bucky likes extra pickles. So many pickles, in fact, that there’s a small pile of crispy dill chips on the plate next to his fries. And next to that there is a—glory be and saint’s be praised—small pile of Advil. However, Advil shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach. But just as Bucky is reaching over for the ketchup, his hand collides with Steve’s in the most middle school event to have ever happened to Bucky ever.

Steve drops his hand, quickly brings it over to his plate where he begins ripping up a french fry. “Go for it,” he mumbles.

Bucky does, casually slathering his burger with ketchup and dumping a pile of it at the side of his plate for his fries, as well. “So,” he begins, still looking at his plate and pointedly not at Steve. “Is this the weirdest first date ever, or am I gonna have to officially ask you out?”

“Um,” Steve replies and when Bucky looks up to put the ketchup bottle back he’s rewarded with the look of a warm, spreading blush, red against Steve’s glittery cheeks. “Yes,” Steve says.

“Yes what?” Bucky asks, grabbing a fry and popping it into his mouth, savoring the way Steve seems breathless as Bucky moves his foot so that his ankle touches Steve’s.

“Yes, this is a first date,” Steve says before reaching over to Bucky’s plate and grabbing a fry.

“Wha?” Bucky gets out. “Why’d you do that when you got half a plate of your own?”

Steve smiles before he pops it in his mouth. “These were drunk fries. Yours are date fries. I wanted to eat the better ones.”

**…**

**Eight Months Later**

**…**

Bucky’s back is aching. He’s spent all day at his computer, which admittedly, he does most days at his job. He got hired by Stark Industries right after graduation, some low-grade position in their HR department. It’s kind of a feat for a twenty-five year-old just getting out of undergrad, but Tony Stark himself had approved his application, apparently telling his supervisor that Bucky was _very_ good at working long hours without tiring himself out.

Bucky chooses to believe that he is referring to his former gig as a late night waiter and not implying that he knows too much about Bucky’s sex life. Which he probably does. But he and Steve can go for long—

“Bucky,” Steve announces. Bucky looks up, a bit startled.

“You’ve got paint on your nose,” Bucky says, sliding over to the inside of the booth so that Steve can sit down next to him.

Steve rubs at his nose, only spreading the green paint around a little more than it had been previously. “Better?” he asks, hopeful.

Bucky chuckles and grabs his paper napkin from underneath his silver wear. It takes a bit of rubbing, but he’s able to get the paint off. He will, however, definitely need a new napkin. “Fresh as a baby’s bottom,” he says when he’s done, wrapping an arm around Steve and kissing the spot that the paint had been on. Steve squirms underneath him, so Bucky eases up with a breathless chuckle. “You want me to stop?” he asks, quiet.

“Kissing my nose, _yeah_ ,” Steve says, positioning himself so that he’s looking face-to-face at Bucky. “But I didn’t say anything about kissing my _mouth_.”

“Oh, so you want me to kiss ya there, do you? Picky, picky, pick—“

He’s interrupted by Steve’s lips on his, soft and searching, and Steve’s long fingers moving up to the back of his neck, pushing into his hair. Bucky grins into the kiss because hell, kissing this little idiot never gets old. Even after eight months together, after graduation and his new job, Steve Rogers’s mouth feels like some kind of revelation, an age old truth that he never understood until the first time they kissed in the streetlights outside the diner, glitter in Steve’s hair and Bucky’s eye black and blue.

“Idiots,” Kate says. Bucky tries to ignore her, but Steve is pulling way. She’s hovering at their table, notepad out and ready to take their order. “Are you here to make out like teenagers or are you actually going to eat something?”

Bucky leans back on the vinyl of the booth, wraps his metal arm around Steve’s shoulders again. “Lemme tell you,” he begins. “I’m gonna eat a hell of a lot more tonight than I am—“

Steve jabs Bucky’s side with his pointy little elbow. “Two Cokes,” he tells Kate. “Swiss omelet with mushrooms, broccoli and whole wheat toast for me…” He glances to the side.

“Turkey club, hold the tomatoes.”

Kate nods, scribbles down their orders on her notepad, then heads to the back where Sam is on the grill. “God,” Bucky says. “Can’t believe you’re gettin’ that omelet. Sounds so nasty…”

“Not like the crap you eat is any better. Does anything even enter your mouth that isn’t fried?”

“First off, I ordered a turkey club today—“

“With fries,” Steve mutters.

“ _And_ ,” Bucky interjects. “Do you really want me to answer that question?” he asks, pointedly looking down to Steve’s crotch, since apparently everyone is clueless about just how dirty Bucky’s mind is, especially with his tiny, sexy boyfriend nearby.

“You’re disgusting,” Steve says, blush kind of ruining the effect of his eye roll.

Bucky plops a quick, chaste kiss onto Steve’s cheek. “But you love me.”

Steve pokes Bucky’s cheek with his finger before returning the kiss. “Yeah, idiot. I really do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was never meant to be. But somehow it exists. You know what else exists? My Tumblr: whtaft.tumblr.com. Check it out if you like me. Check it out if you don't.


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